What I Like About You
by Honey Fujioka
Summary: Holmes and Watson describe their companion. Suck at summaries. Read within!
1. Holmes

Sherlock Holmes' mind consisted of a small room. There was no furniture, only stacked boxes and papers, drawers and cabinets. There was hardly any walking room, but that was alright with him.

Now, and this goes back years and years, Holmes cleared a single drawer (it used to be held with information on the solar system, but that was information he hardly cared for) for the use of Dr. John H. Watson. However, over the years, that single drawer turned into two, and those into three.

In the first drawer was basic information about Watson, his appearance:

his carefully groomed blonde moustache, at the height of fashion, to match his just slightly darker blonde hair.

his blue eyes with lightly dispersed tan flecks around the pupil and silver diamonds stretching to the edges, which darkened when angry or drunk, lightened when jovial.

his old leg wound he received from the Afghanistan war, which still bothers him when he has nightmares the previous night or when it is raining. There is also his nervous habit of rubbing a hand against the same leg's thigh when stressed or uncomfourtable.

his dress, always impeccably clean, also with the height of fashion. They are usually a shade of grey, his overcoat a light tan colour that is constantly needing to be replaced due to blood stains (mostly from Holmes after fighting at the PunchBowl), soot or dirt stains (from chasing down criminals), or from rips and tears (also from chasing down criminals).

his way of walking always with the present limp. After Watson walks into the door of their 221B Baker-street flat, he will call Holmes' name, close the door after exactly four seconds of calling, and walk up the stairs, always pausing on the thirteenth step of seventeen for a quick breath, then continue on his way. He will open the door to their shared rooms, hang his hat and coat on the hook, close the door, and move to put his cane against the wall. If it was an especially bad day, he will forgo putting his cane away and use it to help him to his chair, a huff of frustration following.

In the second drawer in the case of Dr. Watson was his personality and habits:

his extreme loyalty to Holmes and others, which leads to his chivalry towards those who may not warrant but still certainly request his assistance.

his bravery and courage when rushing headlong into danger, chasing criminals or clues. He doesn't question Holmes when he requests a favour or act of him, and goes into battle, consciously aware that he is the bait.

his kindness to a fault. Watson is overly kind, overly nice, and overly aware of the power of words. He is a true gentleman, his hand always extended to anyone who wishes to take it, and his looks and respect make it that they are most always willing.

his absolute loathing of any badness. It must have been doubly instilled in the war, because the criminals they chase after always send a personal emotional spark through the doctour that sometimes make things go a little badly, but that is alright with Holmes, because it makes the doctour most endearing.

In the third drawer lied papers of things Holmes found himself liking about his companion:

his way of speaking with gentleness, yet when angry, the most fierce and hating tone to have ever been spit in his direction-he wondered if this made him a masochist.

his faults-every single one. His scars from the Afghan war, his limp from a stray bullet, his not-as-good-as-his (but then again, who's was?) deduction skills-everything.

his strange attraction to Holmes' hands. Holmes has caught the man staring at them quite a number of times. He finds this most interesting.

his loyalty. Watson will always be loyal and faithful to him, even when Mary asks him to stay. It pleases Holmes in a way that may not be particularly healthy, but Holmes is a known sociopath-he could know nothing of this.

how he stays by his side (it ties with the above reason, but Holmes thinks it belongs in its own categoury). Watson will ALWAYS be beside him, pistol in hand, there to watch his back. Watson will be there when he needs someone to go out and speak with people when he himself cannot get involved. Watson will always be there when Holmes really needs him-when the black fits strike him, and his hands reaches out to grasp his Moroccan case, and Watson is there to stifle the movement, grabbing his wrist in a bone-crushing grip, eyes ablaze with anger. Holmes is still unsure if Watson is angry with him or with himself for allowing Holmes to continue this way.

The list went on for another collection of pages that seemed to make the drawer appear as if it contained several hidden compartments. A single piece of paper was wedged into the very side of the drawer, stuffed between the paper containing his faults and his obsession with Holmes' hands. It read THINGS I DISLIKE ABOUT DR. JOHN H. WATSON, and underneath was scrawled:

"HOLMES!" Watson's voice called from below, hurried, breaking Holmes' reverie. He heard the customary limped footsteps, the normal pause on the thirteenth step absent, peaking his interest. The doctour slammed the door open, breathing heavily. His clothes were disheveled, and he could see by the tracks of dirt and…were those darker stains? Was that bloo—

"A woman, shot outside. Couldn't chase murderer," Watson panted, eyebrows knit, probably berating himself for losing the man due to his leg.

_Ah, _Holmes thought. _That explains the blood._

"Then we haven't a second to lose, do we?" Holmes asked, jumping from his seat and running to the coat stand in a flurry, grabbing his coat and hat, tilting it to its customary tilted angle. He looked up a moment at the doctour and smiled brilliantly, blood pumping adrenaline through his veins at the thought of another case. The doctour returned his excited smile with a soft one of his own, causing Holmes to quickly rush out, lest he do something he shouldn't do. Watson followed behind him as they both exited, the front door still wide open. He saw the woman on the floor, the blood spatter, the bullet, the murderer—all the details just waiting for him to put the mystery together. He grabbed the doctour's arm and rushed out towards adventure.

Far away, in a genius mind, two drawers pertaining to a certain doctour lay closed; the third closed haphazardly, papers sticking out from the edges. The only readable words came from a parchment torn almost in half from the hurriedness of the drawer's closing. On it, in bright red ink, read:

THINGS I DISLIKE ABOUT DR. JOHN H. WATSON:

NOTHING

(Except for when Watson continues to complain about his Moroccan case usage. And his wife, Mary [one cannot forget her]. And a bit of his gambling habits [he's cost them the rent more than a few times, you know]. But that's it.)


	2. Watson

Dr. John H. Watson's mind was not as Holmes described it. He suggested that all people's minds were small rooms, stacked with as much information as possible, but one had to continuously throw out things to put in things. Watson's mind, however, was a battlefield of repressed memories. It was his old tent in the war he shared with another, but in his mind, it was meant only for him.

There was a single cot, drawers filled to the brim with medical information atop and below it, and a bedside table and lamp, papers stacked onto the corners, just barely overlapping the lamp. A rug rested on the floor, the earlier mentioned repressed memories of the war shoved beneath it. When underneath held no more room for more emotionally scarring things, it was shoved into the darkest corner where the shadow of the cot lay when the lamp was on. The tent material around the papers bled red and black, and the rug was becoming frayed and darkly matted with things he'd rather not notice.

Stacked onto a desk on the other side of the bedside table, however, was a neat pile of freshly white papers bound in red ribbon. Across the front read SHERLOCK HOLMES. It was divided into quite a few chapters, if one observed the contents table and chapter listings.

The first chapter read PHYSICAL TRAITS:

Black/brown, most always unkempt hair that never seems to want to stay down; instead, it lays however it pleases, the curls waving in different directions. When sunlight hits it, it appears almost auburn, giving it an autumn glow.

Brown eyes. They are very expressive at times, and at others, most closed and stoic. They darken when drunk or aroused (this appears only on cases when something does not go his way. After a quick frown, his eyes will darken with sudden want of answers or his Morocco case). They lighten when excited, happy, and embarrassed (this last does not occur often, but when it does, it makes Watson feel strangely giddy).

His clothing, which is most always stolen from Watson's own store. They are worn to rags, preventing their return. Watson doesn't mind (most of the time). He usually dresses in dark, warm colours—black, brown, deep reds, white—basically whatever colour the clothing he steals from Watson is.

His five-o-clock shadow is prominently present. It is only shaved when going to The Royale. The shadow gives him a scruffy look, making him appear crazed or poor (the former being the more closer to the truth). When clean-shaven, he appears younger and more innocent-like.

His air of…Just the way he walks and speaks has this air of a tiger prowling, this sort of dark energy that follows him. He can part a crowd merely walking through them, shoulders no longer hunched but straight, head held 90 degrees higher from its usual place of looking at the ground for clues.

His many scars—from criminal chases and fights, from fighting at the PunchBowl—they are too numerous to count, but are too light for anyone not close enough to see. Watson sees them all whenever he patches the detective up from a bout in the boxed ring, sees the light scar running across his cheek, the cuts and bruises peppering his chest and arms, stitches still in place from the last fight.

After the list was the second chapter, which read PERSONALITY:

Dangerous black moods—most always leading to an intimate experience with his Morocco case. They appear whenever clues are not presenting themselves in an especially challenging case and when there is no case.

Always excited when finding clues. He follows these and sees things many of us cannot see. When his thought-process is explained, everything seems simple.

His pure genius. Rarely is he ever out-witted (only the late Irene Adler and late Professour Moriarty came close), and rarely does he miss a case.

His lack of personal space (this is only evident in Watson's case. Rarely does he touch another human being, let alone allow someone to touch him. For example, if Watson were to sit next to him, their knees brushing, Holmes will not jerk away. If someone else were to do the same, he would immediately stand and move to the window or vacate himself from the room). Holmes will always place a hand on Watson's shoulder when explaining his theories or to comfort the doctour in the times when plans go afoul or something dredges up very emotional memories.

His kindness. Holmes is kind in his own way. He will pay more for a child to do him a favour than an adult. He will open doors for Watson (sometimes a patron, but the client is usually ahead of them, so this is rare) when his leg ails him, and will assist a child whenever a need for help arises (he is most kind to children, if one is not already aware. Watson is unsure if it is due to previous childhood problems, and is too gentlemanly to ask him or his brother, Mycroft).

His ability to keep things off an emotional level. It is amazing what things Watson has seen that has startled him to the bone that Holmes will merely sniff over as a technicality and get on with finding clues. He is also quite capable, if not as good, of competing on an emotional level. His attacks and eyes are just as good, if not a little hindered. He is still much smarter than the adversary.

The third chapter read HABITS:

Holmes sits on his chair at a ninety degree angle, head resting atop the armrest, the rest of his body lying languidly across the other armrest, feet dangling off the edge. He will scatter notes, clues, and written theories across the floor and tilt his head to see them all, hands clasped in a pyramid against his lip. He will swing his leg lightly, just slightly hitting the side of Watson's own chair, which will startle him when Holmes kicks harshly as he straightens to get up, realizing something he hadn't seen or somehow connecting some invisible dots that makes everything seem clear.

Holmes will tilt his hat slightly when exiting a building, but will straighten it if tilted when coming in. Well, that's when he _wears_ a hat.

Holmes' fighting style never changes. When street-fighting, he will slap-box. When facing criminals two- or three-on-one, he will use his single-stick fighting style.

Holmes' walk. It's almost a smooth, cat glide, and it takes the breath out of Watson every time (except for when they're chasing criminals because Watson doesn't have enough breath to lose, _and_ he's too busy trying to protect Holmes from the onslaught of gunfire).

The fourth chapter read THINGS I DISLIKE ABOUT HOLMES. This list was even more expansive than the other chapters, but these were mere small things, such as:

His use of his Morocco case. The combination of alcohol, cocaine, morphine, and other poisons is going to kill him one day, and Watson is afraid that day will be sooner than later and that he will be too late to save him.

His black moods. They are terrible and lead back to number 1.

His violin playing at three in the bloody morning. Watson quite enjoys the violin, but not when he is attempting to get his eight hours of sleep. This is also annoying because he doesn't play pieces (he will only play these when Watson asks it of him or to reconcile for those early hour pluck-a-thons), but merely plucks random notes, some fast and flat when he is angry, or slow and flat when he is depressed, stressed, or just a plain mess, or energetic and sharp when he has caught onto a lead. The man is a master on the violin, no doubt, and has proven thus numerous times, but the times he has played so early in the morning (or so late at night, whichever is worse) far outweigh the benefits (that is why this is in the dislike chapter).

The fact that Holmes withholds his plans from Watson. It is a GIANT thorn in the doctour's side. He can understand that sometimes it is necessary, but there are far more accounts when it was not. Is it really so difficult to ask for a few details of a plan that may involve them running from danger or trying to kill criminals?

Holmes experimenting on Gladstone, his dog. He is just a poor dog. That does NOT mean he should be experimented on, even if experimenting on humans is far worse. Holmes does NOT need to try every single poison, anesthetic, or otherwise on his mutt just because he feels like it. End of story.

The fact that Holmes steals his clothes. He's missed many a waistcoat and trouser over the years, and his pocket money is beginning to hurt. He has had to gamble less due to this, and that is terrible in Watson's mind.

That Holmes has set fire to his rooms. Several times. On the same day, in fact. They've had to buy two new settees, four new rugs, a new dining table, restore the hearth, buy new curtains (twice—Holmes thought the first new curtains Watson bought were hideous, and so burnt them down), and three sets of Watson's nice dress clothes. It is beginning to be a pain.

Holmes' general lack of hygiene. During cases, it gets pretty bad (even though Watson himself is not really one to talk, he still grooms a _little_ and _bathes_). It was endearing at first, seeing a man so passionate about crime that he would forgo even these little things. But as Watson began to know the man, he has realized that Holmes is just lazy.

Holmes' lack of sleep and eating habits. It's really bad for him, and there are times when Watson can see that Holmes is falling asleep over his toast, or that he refuses to eat because he is staring intently at a spare bit of newspaper or parchment.

Holmes' fighting habit at the PunchBowl (even though this is sort of Watson's fault because of his losing the rent money quite a few times, so Holmes had to do something to compensate). Even if Watson doesn't lose the rent money, Holmes will go and return beaten and sometimes out of money as well (this is when Watson is too busy to watch over him at the boxing ring to tell if he's had enough or to place the wager himself).

The final chapter read THINGS I LIKE ABOUT HOLMES and it contained only one word.

Watson heard a gunshot, a thud of a body hitting the floor, and fast-paced footsteps running towards him. He immediately saw the gun in the guilty man's hand, stowed away into an inner coat pocket as he brushed the doctour's shoulder. Watson turned to give chase, but a sharp pain ran up his leg, causing his hand to grip tightly at his cane, the knuckles turning milk white. He watched angrily, unable to do anything else, as the man rounded the street corner. He immediately shot to the Baker-street apartment, just by the dead woman on the floor, and slammed the door open with such force, it rattled against the wall.

"HOLMES!" he shouted, running as fast as he could up the stairs, forgoing the customary stop, his leg reminding him why he usually _did_ stop, and burst through their shared rooms, face flush with exertion, hand and wounded leg trembling with the effort to remain standing.

The detective turned to him in mild surprise, taking in the doctour's appearance—probably making some grand assumption of where he'd been that would, on any other occasion, amaze him, but now was not the time.

"A woman, shot outside. Couldn't chase murderer," Watson panted, eyebrows knit at the thought that he lost the man because of his leg.

"Then we haven't a second to lose, do we?" Holmes asked, jumping from his seat and running to the coat stand in a flurry, grabbing his coat and hat, tilting it askew. He looked up a moment at the doctour and smiled brilliantly, eyes alight with awaiting adventure and drama.

The single parchment of paper that read THINGS I LIKE ABOUT HOLMES drifted to the floor of Watson's mental tent as Watson hurriedly moved to chase Holmes out the door. It fell with a slight crinkling sound, the single word upon it a bright, blazing, black sign against the white of the sheet.

In the dying lamplight, one could just make out the words:

THINGS I LIKE ABOUT HOLMES:

EVERYTHING


End file.
